Falling
by JensenAckles13
Summary: As it turned out, they had one thing in common- falling. When a certain handsome god showed up in his room at 3 a.m, he was more than a little surprised. Especially when said god had black thread stitching his lips together and was very, extremely bloodied. In fact, he was so surprised that he fell out of bed. Twice. It was Loki who fell the third time.


If someone were to ask either of them what it had been like to fall, they would've responded in like- tedious, boring, time-consuming….of course that was nowhere near the truth…though time-consuming did come fairly close.  
To Tony, it had seemed like days, weeks, or even months. Given, he was unconscious- he would forever deny that he had been dead- and couldn't remember what had happened, but watching and waiting for those terrible orange and red flames to chase away the remnants of an alien ship had been the longest moment of his life. It was only worsened by the lack of oxygen and the awful pain building in his chest. And then had come the blinding explosion and he had allowed his eyes to fall closed and succumbed to the horrible darkness that had tried to steal him away the moment he'd flown up into the wretched beauty of what he had once wanted so desperately to explore.  
To Loki, it had felt like an eternity. He was fully conscious of the terrible beauty his eyes sought out as he fell; he saw the beginning and the end of a world in one fell swoop. He'd had time to think- to wonder whether this had been his worst mistake or if it was yet to come. For the entire, breathless eternity, Loki saw what he never thought he could- life and death entwined in an explosion of orange and red, a man in red and golden armor falling through the starless sky, out of place even more so than the alien ship that hovered there. And then he was gone once more, floating away from the sight of the future and into the past, where he closed his eyes and let himself go, straight into the hands of the enemy. They'd brought him back, just as the Man of Iron had been brought back- through fear.  
If anyone ever asked Loki if he knew what would come; if he knew of his failure, he would've said no. He would've denied it until it was nothing more than a mantra of unsteady apologies to the ones who tormented him; who bent him out of shape and tortured him into submission. If he was asked if he had felt remorse as he plunged the blade into the Man of Irons chest, he would've said no, but in truth, he was raging with unveiled emotion, tears blurring vision that was usually so sharp, fury altering perception that was usually so ingenious.  
If anyone ever asked Tony if he'd fallen in love with the God of Chaos and Mischief, he would use his tongue to distract; use his endlessly flawless words to deflect from the question he had asked himself many times over, and denied the answer each and every time. He would tell you that no, he wasn't in love with Loki. In truth, he _couldn't _be in love with Loki. He did not want his heart broken, and Loki was a heartbreaker.  
But, as always, love triumphs over all, including ones rash decisions and weak attempts to deter.  
This would not change for the god or the mortal- fate always had a strange way of showing her power.

It had been a year and three days since the attack on New York, though Tony would fully deny that he had been counting the days that passed. That being said, it had been one year and three days since he'd decided Loki was everything he'd ever searched for and everything he'd ever tried to avoid. It was a vicious contradiction. He didn't expect to see the god again. In fact, he was rather counting against it. So when Loki showed up in the middle of his room at 3 a.m. with black thread stitching his lips together and blood mixed with sweat and dirt coating his body, he was more than a little surprised. In fact, waking up from a nightmare to find a handsome and injured god standing in the middle of his room looking like a lost puppy surprised him so much that he'd promptly fallen out of bed, taking the bedside table with him. The shattering of the bottle of Jack Daniels that had been sitting there, coupled with the loud thump of the screwdriver that had been next to it was enough to startle Loki from his kicked puppy impression. Or perhaps it was Tony's wild thrashing as he struggled to get out of the blankets that had entwined around him like some sort of silken serpent.  
It was when Loki raised a pale hand, a finger held up as if he were trying to tell him something, and then promptly keeled over that Tony had finally rid himself of the soft deathtrap he'd been wrapped in. He stared at the bleeding god for a solid five minutes, mouth agape and doing a very good impression of a fish, before he was spurred into action. He rushed forward, babbling at Jarvis to keep the house on lockdown and not to let anyone, I repeat anyone, know of what had transpired.  
His hands hovered above the unconscious deity, trying to figure out what, exactly, to do with a half dead god, before he hauled him- and wow, he was far too thin to be weighing this much- into his arms and set him rather unceremoniously into the bed. He rearranged long limbs into positions that looked more comfortable, which inevitably led to a spread eagled God of Chaos and Mischief facedown in his bed. Tony huffed to himself and rolled the god over, getting him relatively comfortable on the sheets that were currently being bled all over- oh, he was so gonna have to get a new mattress after this…come to think of it, maybe a new room- and quickly set to work finding where he was bleeding.  
It turned out, it was from multiple places. A gash that led from his brow to a sharp cheekbone, whip marks across his back, untraceable and ragged gashes stretching from his ribs to his hip on the opposite side…god, he was a mess. So he did what he could and began cleaning wounds with antiseptic he found in his large medical kit_ (Bruce had insisted upon it after Thor's incident with the toaster in the Tower)_.  
After he'd finished cleaning away blood and disinfecting and bandaging, the god was looking relatively normal once more, except for that damn black thread holding his lips closed. It was fitting, he guessed- the god unable to use his Silvertongue anymore. But that sure as hell didn't make it alright.  
Very carefully- with no small hint of nausea- he cut the stitches and carefully pulled the threads from the god's lips. He may or may not have run to the bathroom to throw up halfway through his procedure.  
Once he'd finished, blood had started to well and dammit he was not going to let the deity bleed out _after he'd saved him_. Instead he'd cleaned the wounds, but by the time he went to bandage them, they'd healed. Must've been some weird god thing that Tony was more than jealous of not having.  
Having done all he could do, he perched himself on the edge of the bed and waited.


End file.
